


a s m r (a sound morty reveres)

by phadedphoque



Series: rick and morty don’t have sex (until they do) [2]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: ASMR, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Orgasm, Hands Free Orgasm, Incest (kind of), Masturbation, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22260787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phadedphoque/pseuds/phadedphoque
Summary: Morty has a new way to fall asleep, he uses ASMR videos, he finds them soothing.It’s a way to sand down the rough edges of his brain from a long day filled with the weight of what he does with Rick. He even likes the kind where people say nice things to him (especially when people say nice things to him). with all the things he’s seen it’s a miracle something as simple as a YouTube video can work so well.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Series: rick and morty don’t have sex (until they do) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1602316
Comments: 18
Kudos: 122





	a s m r (a sound morty reveres)

“ _Follow the sound of my voice”_

A dull hiss fizzes into the microphone and he feels it brush against the back of his brain, tantalizing and massaging. 

He’s found himself a new hobby, a new way to feel good, a new crutch to get him through hard and hollow nights. He’s since looked into it, his own cursory research providing some insight into the phenomenon and why it feels so tantalizing. Before anyone had known what it’d been called, it was simply called _the unnamed feeling_. He thinks the mystery of it is romantic in a way, trusting in the magic in a way that’s strangely religious, giving himself over to something he can’t quite comprehend. 

The first time he’d ever considered it was in the garage, resting his head upon the worktable, exhausted after pulling his third consecutive all nighter over something Rick was supposed to have finished two weeks ago. The sound of his hands tapping and clattering against the wood had intrigued him, the sensation they’d brought to his ears dull but prominent enough to be noticeable. He’d known about ASMR but he’d dismissed it as a trend, just another thing he didn’t understand that kept him separated from his cohort, never thought he’d be part of the chosen handful who get the famed tingles.

When he looks it up for the first time he feels foolish and awkward, too late to the party. Thankfully, he’s able to overcome his inhibitions. He spends the rest of the night clicking through various videos finding sounds that work for his brain. He comes across one he _really_ likes, this one from a mechanic with a subtle southern twang and a plethora of shiny tools. He only films himself from the wrist down: Morty wonders what he looks like, if he’s as young as his hands make him look or if he’s as hold as his whispered wisdom makes him sound. He uses lots of mechanical triggers, metallic twanging and clanging, but sometimes softer sounds: oiling, brushing, polishing. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, they’re low, gristly platitudes one might whisper idly to an object they’re maintenancing: he hates that he loves the attention. 

Every night he assures himself it’s not _gay_ to listen to the sound of a man’s voice, it can’t be when there’s nothing sexual about it. Not that there was supposed to be- at least, nothing sexual about it at first. 

(It wasn’t until weeks of considering it, that he’d consciously masturbated to the sound of someone’s voice telling him what to do. He’d needed time to get over the perverseness of how he felt. When he finally worked up the courage it was so difficult, he’s so used to subsiding on the closeups from porn to get him off, the violent angles not too dissimilar to what he’s used to in his day to day life but not quite so romantic. He’d never tried with so little. Tortuous, he’d nearly rubbed himself raw trying to come. It was infuriating, being so close to the edge but never quite getting there. When he finally managed to find release, it was a measly and pathetic orgasm, the kind that provided almost no clarity or relief. His stomach muscles were sore but tired in the good way that lets him sleep soundly at night) 

Sometimes they feel _so close_ in his ear it’s like they’re there, cradling him: a specter of static that spoons him softly. A sort of touch beyond touch, the furthest rung of electrons of the last layer of his skin that are able to feel the whisper and let it love him, make him feel warm and ok, something he doesn’t have in his life and never has. He almost starts to believe he’s got a poltergeist in his phone, praying for its possession, the ghostly touch a candle in the trench of sadness weighing down his heart. 

It’s the closest he’d felt to a hug since he’d last been manhandled ( _oh._ ) by Rick ( _don’t think about it)_. In the night when all his inhibitions have lowered and the lines between the parts in his brain blur, the dreams he has blend the things he’s most scared of together with the things he likes most. 

He knows how pathetic it is, getting so attached to false affection, but it’s hard not to fall for it when they’re so intimate. The videos are gentle and soft in a way that nobody else in his life is gentle and soft with him, he finds he’s nostalgic for something he’s never had. 

He’s always nervous when he watches the video at first, makes sure to hide the dull glow of the screen. It’s not like it’s even porn or anything it’s just— embarrassing, for a reason he can’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it’s because it makes him stink of desperation, knows that Rick can somehow smell it on him, even if he doesn’t know what it is yet. 

Sometimes, when he’s lucky, he feels the touch travel further down along his body, from his ears it travels down his neck to the dip of his back. Sometimes he feels imaginary hands graze the tops of his thighs, tingles teasing the edge of his groin. He wakes up with wet spots in his underwear but it’s well worth it, the alternative being awake all night. 

He falls asleep on that gentle electric cloud until the end of the video where it lays him down to sleep on his bed. The days make his brain itchy and the videos calm it down, soothe it when he hadn’t even known it was in need. He’s exhausted the common channels, searching for just the right sounds to give him what he needs and filters for the videos that don’t come up right away, the ones on the seedy back page of the internet. They’re the videos that tap away at the mic that zap a pulse to his cerebellum. But they’re also the videos that talk to him, worry about him, tell him what to do to make it better. It takes a weight off him in a way they tell him he’s doing well controlling his breathing, being still, working hard. It makes him queasy if he thinks about it so much, the way he loves being told he’s _good_. So what if it has its drawbacks: (morning wood and wet dreams and early morning washings) the benefits outweigh the risks. 

For the first time in a while he feels good, like he’s able to sleep _well_ , wakes up actually feeling rested. He’s able to fall into a semi stable routine, barring the occasional one nighter here and there. But he knows all too well that every good thing must come to an end. 

The lights flick on and they’re _wicked_ bright, a blinding, uncomfortable beam.

He’s groggy and confused at first, as people often are when they’re woken up from sleep, then _scared_ , his heart races and he rises, eyes still hurting but stretched wide open. He yells and kicks and huddles up in his disorientation, trying his best to defend himself. It comes as second nature now. Not long after, when he has his wits about him, he’s immediately embarrassed about his overreaction. He supposes it’s been a while since Rick’s gotten the jump on him like this and tries not to let himself feel too bad about it. But then, he finds real reason to fear: it dawns on him that his video’s still playing. It’s the worst possible video in the playlist, the soft voice of one of his favorites who tells him he’s the best, and then he’s panicking for real, even more than he does when someone walks in on him masturbating. Something about the holistic aspect of it makes him feel deeply ashamed, makes him feel like he’s disrespecting his grandfather’s namesake. He hopes he didn’t notice. 

It had been too late, he’d seen. Rick chides him for it, of course. How could he not? 

“ASMR? _Really_ Morty?” He tsk’s in disapproval.

But then he’s dragging him away from it as per usual: Morty’s time insurmountable compared to his grandpa’s. They have more important things to do, missions to go on, errands to run, lives to ruin. 

In the ship Rick breaks it down, talks about how ASMR is all mumbo jumbo: not enough research, inconsistent cohort, practically a pseudoscience. And besides, if it doesn’t help HIM it doesn’t matter, right? Morty is tired and grouchy and he nods placatingly while staying silent through his rant, a captive audience. He’d already decided: it won’t stop him from doing what works, it just makes him more secretive about it. Like anything one can’t have, the thought of doing it to get under Rick’s skin excites him, the stupid videos become his dirty little secret in the dead of night. 

Part of it saddens him that he has to keep this a secret from Rick: he thinks that he could learn to relax more himself, in a better, healthier way. His pace swings like a pendulum from science to partying, a living metaphor of work hard, play hard. He thinks it could help him, like it’s helped himself. It hurts him to think about how his brain is only a quarter filled with horrible things in comparison to Rick.

But he’s a man of science, not a man of empathy, spirituality, nor holistic remedy. 

  
  


It was only a matter of time before their heads clashed. Morty wasn’t doing what Rick had _told_ him to do, Morty’s reigns out of his grasp. It was one of the weird little obsessive, possessive things Rick did that pissed Morty off as much as it endeared him-- to a point. 

This time, instead of giving in, Morty holds his ground, their silent stalemate at a crossroads. There’s no way Rick _doesn’t_ know what Morty is doing with all his surveillance equipment, but never catches him in the act, can’t find a natural segue to shame Morty into stopping, but won’t let on how much it bothers him. He doesn’t do anything more about it (aside from the occasional comment about Morty’s gullibility) until one day Rick loses his cool. Months later when Morty’s almost forgotten about the whole ordeal Rick brings it up again, always one to hold a grudge. He lies (Morty suspects) about needing to research ASMR on a viable subject, thinks up an elaborate backstory Morty doesn’t dare refuting. 

They head to the bunker, the usual setting for performing research on Morty like a lab rat. Morty sits himself down on the examining table, waiting for Rick to do his worst. Unlike other experiments where he’s thrust into madness, it seems like Rick’s chosen to stick with the scientific method for once. 

He’s slow and calculating, taking vitals and making notes and for a moment it’s convincing enough that maybe he really _is_ doing this for a reason. Rick takes his blood pressure, it’s faster than normal and he knows it’s already giving him away, all the little evidence in front of them. He uses a scope to look inside Morty’s ears, something that feels deeper than anything that’s ever been in his ear before, the sound of delicate hairs grazing icy metal akin to the sensation of ASMR itself only amplified through the reality of real, tangible touch. Without warning he feels water squirt inside of his ear, a horrible wetness they sloshes around in the unmapped place behind his brain, he grimaces in discomfort and his eyes twitch, trying to roll all the way back to witness the horror. Rick repeats the process on his other side, while his other ear drains. It’s just as torturous as the first time. 

He’s always particularly sensitive to when Rick examines him, wanting, hoping to be good, needing to pass whatever test, praying Rick won’t flunk him due to some lack on his behalf. 

He realizes he’s in for the long haul when he comes to the conclusion Rick’s decided to be serious about this one, he’s collecting the whole set of various Morty samples. 

“Open”, he orders, and Morty obeys, used to the drill. Rick swabs the inside of his cheek for saliva, the cotton swab always tickles, a spot that nobody besides Rick has ever touched. A string of droo connected to the swan l leaves his mouth and he feels guilty about being messy, even though it isn’t really his fault. 

Next he pulls Morty’s hand towards himself, holds it in his own, bigger hand, and pricks the top of his middle finger for blood. He pinches the top to collect the drops, Morty feels the blood rush to his finger tip, it feels heavy. 

He strips as he’s told, something he has to do all too often. Rick soaks a cotton ball with alcohol and cleans small spots of his skin so that the sensors adhere better to his body. They’re the sticky, uncomfortable kind that rip off his peach fuzz. 

He places them at his forehead and at his temples, one on his chest, and awkwardly one on the top of each of his thighs. It’s not a common place to put sensors and Morty bets Rick is fucking with him, another turn in their continuous mind game. All he can do is pretend it doesn’t bother him. 

Next he’s instructed to lie down in a tube, it’s tight and dark and not all that pleasant but not the worst he’s ever been in. He can’t see very well as it blocks most of his view, only the shadows reflecting on the inside of the tube remain in view.

Rick isn’t saying much and Morty is starting to worry that he’s been left, a fair concern when dealing with Rick. And then, without warning the machine whirs, a mechanical, magnetic sound.

The sound itself could be worked into Morty’s ASMR routine he thinks, it’s a type of white noise he could get used to. 

And then it stops way sooner than morty expects-- It’s sudden and he’s not prepared for it, Morty wonders if he’s done something wrong. 

Then he’s back, this time holding a pair of headphones, the kind that go in-ear. There’s nothing particularly special about them except morty can tell from the glowing green battery that they’re definitely one of Rick’s, always leaving his mark on the things that belong to him. 

His arms are basically worthless: he can’t move them inside the tube. He looks up to see Rick glaring down at him, the intense look he gets in his eyes when he’s working on something. It’s intense, to say the least and he’s not used to the tenderness. 

Rick puts the pair inside Morty’s ears, and it’s a strange sensation, having someone else pop headphones into his ears. It’s a place not commonly intruded on by anyone other than himself and it makes him nervous in a way, hopes Rick will be gentle. 

And surprisingly, he is. 

He leaves without saying anything else, enveloped in the experiment.

Then sound engulfs Morty, right away he’s hit with the tingling sensation of someone whispering too closely in his ear. The real scanning starts, and he’s listening to ASMR in what are likely the most pristine audio settings sound science has to offer. Ricks playing with dials of recorded records of his favorites like he’s the organ player in a church. It’s humiliating knowing Rick’s seen his history despite his efforts, thinking that he’s been watched so closely as a playlist runs with videos he’d so desperately tried to hide.

Rick files through a slew of different settings: amplifying the sound, adjusting frequencies, and changing pitches. Morty laughs at the thought of himself being so acutely attuned just like one of the mechanic’s beloved instruments an yet he can’t help but feel warm. 

But then it stops all too suddenly and it’s eerily quiet in his room like he’s been dropped by the ghostly sounds that enveloped him.

\--And then it’s not the sound of the youtubers but it’s Rick, Rick’s gruff, gravelly voice. The sound of his breathing. His meticulous voice reserved for his passion. It feels good, really good, to be loved the way Rick loves his science. Morty’s no stranger to being used as a guinea pig, actually likes it more than he lets on. It makes him feel important even though he’s not really doing much at all. He revels in his usefulness and absorbs the calculated touches, stores the memory for later use. 

There’s a petty exhibitionist game happening and morty’s eyes roll into the back of his head as he thinks about it, the depravity of the situation. Morty knows Rick can see his heart rate pick up at the thought of it, the man essentially reading his mind. If he squeezes his eyes hard enough, he’s practically able to feel Rick’s warm breath on his thighs. He clenches at the thought, trying to be still for his grandpa.

Something about it being there, live, in front of him, makes him go wild, the audio quality literally and likely out of this world. He feels his eyes roll back in his head, the sensation of hands raking through the wrinkles of his brain. 

He’s hard, _really_ hard now, has been practically since they had started. He didn’t think it was possible but he’s starting to worry about making a mess of his pants, the tip of his cock already leaking. He stretches his body out unwillingly, this muscles contracting with the sound. His back arches and he’s so overcome with the sensation of tingles. They’re bordering on painful but not just quite, his whole body pins and needles. His thighs twitch like they do when he thinks about the digital breath blowing across them. It’s getting dangerous now, his thighs also start to twitch like that right before he’s about to come. 

And then Rick’s talking to him, repeating phrases he’d never say for anything other than the sake of science, simply parroting the pleasantries he’d picked up from others. It’s cruel. 

_“You’re doing so well”._

It’s a mockery of the praise he gets when he _has_ earned it, it sounds so wrong and undeserved. He knows the phrase isn’t genuine but, horribly, it’s enough, enough to trick the wires in his brain to crisscross and sizzle, and he’s coming, untouched. It’s never happened to him (at least while he’s awake) and he’s out of breath, but can’t get the _tingling_ out of his head. His body’s still trilling, buzzing, trembling. It’s the best thing he’s ever felt in his life but the shame comes back to him instantly, his post orgasm high gone all too soon. 

“I thought this shit was supposed to make you relax--”

Rick’s what’s broken through his wall of white light and replaced it with horrible embarrassment. He’s just come to the sound of his grandfather’s voice. He wants to cry. 

The two make eye contact, there’s no doubt Rick can’t see him panting and sweating. He watches Rick glance down to the front of his boxers and knows he sees the wet spot. 

Rick says nothing but lets out an awful scoff that says it all: he’s almost impressed at how Morty’s outdone himself this time. 

He throws a towel at him and walks out of the room, leaving Morty to slide out of the plexiglass tomb on his own in his messed up boxers. He skulks off to his room, mortified.

Nights pass and he refuses to listen to any more of the videos, the sounds only bringing him secondhand embarrassment instead of their usual calming balm. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_. 

He wants to bash his head through the drywall. 

It’s _so like Rick_ to always have his way in the end, ruining the one thing that brought any peace anymore. 

Days later when he’s ended his self imposed boycott, he finds Rick on the couch, flipping through interdimensional cable. He lands on a documentary about ASMR. _What a coincidence_.

Rick shows interest, casually, trying too hard to be cool. Morty’s suspicious if he’s sincere but judging by the look on Rick’s face he might just be trying to bridge the gap, cut his losses. Morty brainwaves don’t emit themselves, he supposes.

Part of him naively hopes he’s actually looking for help, figuring at least, if anything, it’s in his subconscious. 

The two get settled into the couch and Morty pulls out his phone. He gets close to Rick and scrolls through and talks about the videos, picks out a good sampler video of various sounds. Their shoulders touch and they lean into one another, their game over, the white flag now raised.

The attention makes him feel warm and bold, takes initiative like he rarely ever does. He instructs Rick to lie down, and the man actually does it: his head not quite in Morty’s lap but close to it. Damn his long legs.

He pulls out a pair of headphones, the ones Rick made for him and pops them in his ears.

“You know, if there’s really something to this, If you can get me to feel it, we might be able to—“

Morty lets out a harsh laugh, always the opportunist, this man. 

“It won’t work if you don’t _shut up_ ”

Rick grins at him before closing his eyes. Morty watches his face relax: a rare moment of vulnerability. The wrinkles smooth out of the corners of his eyes and away from the marionette lines around his mouth, he looks younger now the knicks and scars on his grandpa’s face still telling of his age and experience, all the life he’s lived. 

The two stay like that until Morty realizes Rick’s fallen asleep, by some miracle of god (or too much whiskey) and takes it as his cue to leave. 

Morty is smug as he leaves rick on the couch, careful not to jostle him, another small victory notched into his belt. 


End file.
